“Oh! I have such good news to tell you,” cried the little bird as soon as he could speak. “I sat on a bough this morning, close to a window where sat an old lady, who was reading aloud to a sick man, so I stopped to listen. These are the words she read,—‘Sermons in stones, books in running brooks.’ I didn’t hear any more, but came right away to study that. I was so glad I had found something to help us. Two things in one.” They all looked very much amazed. “Why, we didn’t think we could do anything!” cried the stones, “and here we can do one of the best things there is to be done. Thank the dear God for that. We will preach sermons full of God and his works, for we have seen a great many ages, and their story is locked up in us.” “And the brook shall tell us of books,” said the old wind. “There is good in everything, and we shall try not to feel discouraged the next time we are in a difficulty.” [Illustration: “A SMALL GIRL JUST UNDER MY NEST IN THE ORCHARD.”] “Books in running brooks,” said the brook. “Books, books, books. And I too can praise Him.” * * * * * “This morning,” said a sober-looking bird, “a small girl just under my nest in the orchard, was saying something over and over to herself, and I listened; and these were the words that she said: The ocean looketh up to heaven as ’twere a living thing, The homage of its waves is given in ceaseless worshipping. They kneel upon the sloping sand, as bends the human knee, A beautiful and tireless band, the priesthood of the sea, They pour the glittering treasures out which in the deep have birth, And chant their awful hymns about the watching-hills of earth. “If the ocean is so good and grand as that he ought to do something at our Chautauqua. Couldn’t he? God must love him very much, he worships him so much.” “Yes,” said the elm tree. “I have heard that a great man once said, ‘God, God, God walks on thy watery rim.’” “Wonderful, glorious,” murmured the flowers. “They tell stories at Chautauqua—pretty stories about things and people; and I have heard that Ocean has a wonderful story. We might send word to ask if he will tell it,” suggested Bachelor. “I fear he cannot leave home,” said the wind, “but we might try him.” So it was agreed that the woodpecker should write a beautiful letter, earnestly inviting him to take part in the grand new movement for the coming summer. The brook agreed to carry the daintily-carved missive to the lake, and the lake to the river, and the river would carry it to the sea. Bachelor spoke next: “They have a School of Languages at Chautauqua, could we have one?” “I have thought of that,” said the fish, “but who could teach it?” “That is the trouble,” said Bachelor, slowly shaking his head.